Kings and Assassins

by Lane Robins

  Janus said, “If you're imagining ravening hordes of Relict rats leaping out at you, stop. We're armed men on horseback, hard pickings for men with sticks. They're far more like to be scavenging the city for dead men's possessions.”

  “You're certain?” the man asked. His gloved hands pulled at his reins; his horse tossed its head.

  “Quite,” Janus said. Simpson turned in his saddle to shoot a glare that reminded the soldier exactly why that might be an unwise question.

  Janus was pleased to have Simpson's company even if he was waiting his chance to kill him. Riding through the Relicts woke painful memories of fifteen years of hardscrabble living and willful neglect, his desperate struggle to keep Miranda and himself alive, and it woke later memories also. The slow, stumbling gait of his horse reminded him of the night he had followed Maledicte out to the pier to watch him kill Last.

  He wished he were riding out to that moment again, when they had wrung victory from a man who had discarded him without a second's thought. Would he have done things differently? If he hadn't interfered, if Ani had left, the compact completed, and Maledicte freed of Her madness, would he still have Miranda at his side?

  If he had her beside him now, he knew she would bare sharp white teeth and growl, “Stop thinking and act!”

  He wondered what advice Psyke would have offered had he stopped to ask. He doubted she would ever advocate action over thought; she was as moodily introspective as Aris had ever been, though she at least could be roused from it.

  The young soldier danced his horse again, and Janus spurred his own mount in reaction; he felt as nervy as a winter wolf come down into the city. At this rate, he thought, listening to his heart race in its bone cage, he'd be grateful to face Ivor. At least then his impetuous nerves would serve more purpose than to sour his mouth and his belly.

  The sound of the sea lapping at pilings reached out to him, brought a tang of salt rot to his senses, and raised the damp hair at his nape. There was a new and unfamiliar sound as well, a gurgling suck as the night tides crawled over and through the brass gates strung across their domain. Janus heard hushed voices carried on the breeze, a tease of meaning that swirled away without ever granting more than a single word here and there. But it was close enough, the words heard were important enough—palace, guards, boat, escape—that Janus said, “Dismount. We'll try for surprise, leave the horses here.”

  “They'll be carved up for horsemeat,” Simpson said, squandering the fragile goodwill he had earned with Janus.

  “Then leave a man behind, or do you fear the city's savages will devour him also?” He swung down from his mount hurriedly, using the reins to stabilize his uneven descent, his weak arm useless. Janus unsheathed his blade the moment his feet touched ground, and walked forward, choosing not to wait for the others, not wanting to get caught in the mass of jostling horses unhappy with their surroundings.

  Instead he moved on through the rubble, treading a path into his past. He'd nearly forgotten how oppressive the nights could seem. Even the bobbing pole lanterns the soldiers carried seemed swallowed, surrounded by a blackness as unrelieved as the grave. He licked his lips, tasting salt.

  When Maledicte stalked Last, playing at predation as if that could make the intent to kill any less real, when Mal had come to the docks, he had drawn the night fogs about him like a cloak.

  Janus let out a steady breath as he passed yet another pile of shadowed rubble, a leaning window frame holding a half-tilted wall. Adiran, with Ani's wings sheltering him, could be anywhere.

  Janus shook his head; he was letting fancies rule his mind. While Adiran might very well seek a nest in a small cranny of stones, Ivor would not. And Ivor held the boy's reins; Ivor would want, as Janus had wanted, to watch his enemy die.

  Ahead, Ivor was on the pier at the heart of a strange mélange of men, obviously some of his agents collected in his trip through Murne. There was a baker, called away from his ovens, three clerks who had apparently been working late, merchants called from their homes—all armed with pistols or swords. The shadows and the lanterns were deceptive, made an army out of what was—Janus squinted, trying to count people instead of light dazzle—only seven of them.

  “The prince isn't there,” Simpson whispered.

  “No,” Janus said. It felt like false reprieve, something meant to lure them into what could be a well-set trap.

  “Do we have any other option?” Simpson said. “Should we wait for Rue?”

  Janus repeated himself. “No. Listen.”

  “They're not speaking,” Simpson said after a long pause where he stood on point as well as any hunting hound. Any untrained hound.

  “Listen to the water,” Janus said. “A boat's coming in. Small.” If he opened his eyes wide, let the darkness shape itself, he could almost see it, a shadow against the glitter of the water, a dinghy coming in without lamps to lead the way. “They'll be gone before Rue arrives.”

  “The sea gates.”

  “His men will open them.” Janus shook his head, infuriated. “For all we know, some of his men helped set them up. There will have to be a thorough purging of our streets after this. I will not have Murne a breeding ground for spies and saboteurs.”

  He took a breath, said, “Leave Ivor to me. If it can be avoided, we want him alive, as hostage against Grigor if nothing else.” Janus chose not to share his worries about Ivor's guidance of a god-touched prince; they knew only that Adiran had been kidnapped, that this part was meant to bring him back.

  “Ivor's men?”

  “Kill them all,” Janus said.

  He strode forward out of the Relict's sheltering darkness, unsheathing his blade. It hissed against the leather, and he found his breath echoing that serpentine sound.

  He heard the scuffle of men following, and heard Simpson dispatching one of their men to guard the latch that held the gates in place. That left them with only four to occupy Ivor's men, and Janus to face Ivor.

  Ivor turned as if he felt himself in Janus's thoughts. His dark eyes narrowed; Janus knew they'd be discovered momentarily—the soldiers wore white beneath their blue coats, the shine of metal in moonlight.

  “Such a very good pet,” Ivor said. He pitched his voice to carry; it didn't take much effort. Unlike the night when Maledicte had brought blanketing silence under Ani's wings, this night, so far, was ordinary enough. “Come to find his master.”

  “No more badinage,” Janus said.

  Ivor stripped off his coat. “I regret it's come to this, Janus. I am as fond of you as I can be fond of anyone.”

  “You talk too much,” Janus said. He rushed in, savoring the quick startlement in Ivor's eyes at what appeared a suicidal lunge. Ivor, after all, was barricaded behind his loyal men. But the man who moved to confront Janus was blown backward with a roar and the stink of gunpowder. Simpson stepped out of the rubble, tucking the first pistol away and aiming a second.

  Ivor nodded. “Very well then.” He unsheathed his saber, and, after a smiling glance at Janus's nearly useless left hand, pulled out his dagger. “You're outmatched.”

  “I've always been outmatched,” Janus said. “In the Relicts, in the Winter Court, in the Antyrrian court. Yet I'm still alive.”

  Ivor urged his own men out of the way. They were reluctant to do so, not only out of protectiveness, but self-preservation. They had to know that their lives were only obstacles in the Antyrrians' path to Ivor.

  The moment they moved, the soldiers engaged them in pistol shot and blade work.

  Janus decided, as a ball sped by, leaving him wincing reflexively from a danger that had already passed, that Simpson hadn't been the one aiming at him in the throne room. He was apparently the only one of the men with him now who had any ability to aim a pistol.

  Ivor closed with Janus, taking advantage of his distraction; Janus barely raised his saber in time, blocking the slash meant to open his throat. He twisted, taking himself out of range of the second blow, the follow-up with the dagger that norm
ally would be intercepted by a dagger of his own.

  Instead, he twisted, dropped to a knee, and came up with a loose handful of grit, tossing it into Ivor's face. The man ignored it, too confident in his own body and too knowledgeable of Janus's training to fear the momentary blindness. Ivor pressed forward and Janus shifted, slipping under the blade, putting a shoulder into Ivor's sternum and shoving him back. Janus got himself out of Ivor's blade's reach, chastising his own instincts; time was not his ally. The longer he fought Ivor, the more certain he was to lose. He was hampered—one blade against two, one man against his mentor—and Janus knew with certainty that Ivor hadn't taught him everything. Ivor always kept some secrets.

  Ivor smiled again, showing his teeth in wolfish enjoyment. “Well, that was bracing. Again?”

  Janus circled Ivor, two full rotations while he tried to think; but all he could think was that he couldn't beat Ivor and that he must beat Ivor.

  “I am surprised you came yourself,” Ivor said, “when you have others, more… able … to send instead—”

  “Some tasks you want to see done yourself,” Janus said. He flicked a gaze beyond Ivor when a single groan cut through the sounds of steel meeting steel. One of the palace soldiers sagged, a dagger in his throat. The clerk tugged it out, wiped it free of blood, and chose another target, all the while limping.

  “You intend to kill me?” Ivor said. “Is that wise? To thwart Her? I thought you capable of learning from the past, Janus.”

  Ivor grew impatient, took three graceful steps forward, blades moving, and Janus found each of his thrusts turned back, sweat trickling down his spine.

  Ivor frowned, dark suspicion in his eyes. “I trained you better than this. Of course, I wouldn't have thought you'd let that sycophantic fop of the duchess's maim you either.”

  Janus changed his footwork, shifting to the Antyrrian rapier fighting style, hoping for a moment's advantage. He didn't get it. Ivor shifted fluidly, knocked Janus back and down. Janus groaned as his bad arm took his weight. The flesh around the sutures tore again, but he scrambled to his feet instead of curling around the pain. That was for later. If there was a later.

  A pistol shot exploded and sang between them, making Ivor jerk back; Janus made it to his feet and out of the range of Ivor's sword before he even looked to see Simpson holstering a spent pistol.

  Simpson had saved his life. Janus put that startling thought aside for another time and dealt with Ivor.

  His plan had seemed simple enough at the palace: capture Ivor; recover Adiran before the boy's path was irrevocably set.

  But Ivor had no desire to be captured, or even slowed, and Janus's skills had deserted him. He might, with Simpson continuing to distract Ivor, get in a killing blow, but what of Adiran? What of Antyre?

  “My poor pet,” Ivor said. “You look at me as if I'm the solution to all the difficulties facing you. While I'm not one to belittle myself, let me tell you, should you kill me, your problems will only increase—”

  Janus growled, lunged forward, concentrating on a move Ivor couldn't expect, going back to the days when he was a rat and facing boys better armed than he. He swung at Ivor, and at the point of highest impetus, he let go of the blade.

  Ivor's eyes widened; he ducked the sharp edge. Even unguided, even falling, the heavy blade could wound, and Janus caught Ivor's right wrist, yanking it back and around, disarming him. If it had been the Relicts, Janus would have stayed close, beaten his victim down with the stolen weapon. As it was, he merely kept Ivor's arm pinned behind his back, kept himself leaning close, his weight his only weapon left.

  This close, Ivor should have been hampered, unable to use his dagger for more than feeble half strikes, but he flipped the blade in his palm, shifting its direction, and stabbed, underhand and backward toward Janus's belly.

  Janus released him, flung himself away, and thought it was done. He had lost. Ivor shook out his arm, collected the blades at his feet, his own and Janus's.

  “You gambled,” Ivor said, “but games that defeated children will not defeat an experienced duelist. Still, if you'd had the use of two arms—who knows?”

  Simpson staggered to Janus's side, put his blade before Janus.

  Ivor said, “I should kill you,” and there was such a strange reluctance in his voice that Janus faltered. It wasn't fondness, almost sounded like fear.

  Ivor's saboteurs, the three left standing, said, “Your highness, the boat—”

  During the skirmish the boat had made it beyond the gate. The oarsmen stroked toward them. Janus knew it meant another of his soldiers dead. On Janus's side, only Simpson lived.

  “Sir?” Simpson said.

  “Kill him,” Janus said. He would have to trust that Dmitry's confession would be enough to overset the murder of the prince ascendant of Itarus, that Adiran could be turned from his vengeance without Ivor confessing his lie to the god!

  A sudden wind rose, blowing toward the sea instead of from it, with a silence beneath it—the sound of the world taking notice of a predator moving through—and then a skirl of black against a black sky, blinking the stars away.

  Rooks, Janus realized. Adiran come to help Ivor at last. He whispered quick and low to Simpson, “Do not engage Adiran—do not go near him. If he kills—”

  Simpson nodded. His eyes were wild, the whites visible all the way around, and Janus thought his might be the same. Black-Winged Ani's presence filled the air and froze men's blood as if they were caught in nightmares.

  The rooks swirled closer, their wingbeats audible, a cyclone of them, and walking at their base, a child-shaped figure with a dagger in his hand.

  Two words insinuated themselves into the churned air and carried to the cluster of men on the dock. Two words that rasped like feathers and seethed with rage. Two words that filled Janus with despair, with the certainty that Evan had died.

  “Found you.”

  Beside him, Ivor began to laugh.

  ♦ 29 ♦

  SYKE SLOWED HER STEPS AS she reached her quarters; she paused with her hand above the handle. Mirabile said, startlingly vivid in her ear, Hiding again? That's what you did while your family died. Will you do the same now when the stakes are greater?

  One of the kingsguards stationed by her door reached out and opened it for her, never meeting her eyes; they both knew she was meant to be caged, a potential danger neither Janus nor Rue had the time to deal with, but Psyke knew also that the guard feared her.

  She passed him, into her rooms, dwelling on need. She needed to aid Janus, aid Antyre. Her husband had won there; the two were inextricably linked in her mind. To save him was to save the country. But what could she do? She had spoken as true as she knew to Janus, startled by the despairing way he clutched that child so close: She brought only death.

  Even now, she feared it was true. Ivor had set fire to the west side of the palace, and men were dying putting it out. On the streets of the city, men were dying of plague. In Sir Robert's offices, a boy was dying, his whimpers growing softer as he weakened. It felt like pressure in her head, as if she had fallen into a cave and the earth weighed upon her. Haiths voice surrounded her, faint whispers she could try to ignore. Give me … He said. Give me your—

  She plugged her fingers into her ears like a child.

  Hiding like the mouse you are. A waste of a god's attention. Mirabile's voice, shrill, penetrated even that defense.

  Psyke moved away from the door, away from the guards who might hear and suffer yet another spasm of panic that their lady talked to the dead. Once she had reached her sitting room, turned up the lamps to drive out the shadows, she said, “You might offer me advice instead of censure.”

  As always, speaking to the ghosts seemed to encourage their existence, clothed them in something close to flesh. It eased the stiffness in her spine and neck, to not have to brace herself against a sudden voice, from here, from there, from within her head.

  You mistake me for someone who has advice to give, Mirabile said. Sh
e sat in a rose pink chair that did nothing flattering to her scarlet hair. I never heeded it when alive, so I have no words now. You do know he'll die.

  “ Who?” she asked, but Mirabile, viper tongued and smug though she was, was correct. She did know. Janus, she thought.

  Janus, Mirabile echoed. He's proud and possessive of what's his. He claims Antyre and he'll fight to the death for his chance to keep it.

  “Can I help?” she asked. “You bartered with Ani. Surely you must know how to ask Haith for aid.”

  Mirabile said, You don't listen well. I have no advice for you. I thought I understood Black-Winged Ani, but Maledicte knew Her better than I ever did. What makes you think I paid any attention to the lesser shadow Her brother cast?

  “Then leave me alone,” Psyke said. She threw a book at Mirabile; the ghost faded and the book thumped to the floor, creasing its pages.

  Psyke knelt, collected it, smoothing the damage. Aris had given it to her, the old genealogy of her family from the time her ancestor was king. Before Haith had taken his family from him.

  She flipped through the pages, paused at the portrait of Thomas Redoubt, wondering if he had felt Haiths touch, if his skin had rearranged itself to reflect the god. If he had felt as drowned as she did.

  He couldn't have, she thought. Not and fought as he had, not and shaped the kingdom as he had. He had had Haiths aid, not merely His presence.

  Her hands balled themselves into fists, fury lancing inward. Difficult to make a choice to act when every action she took seemed to be the wrong one. She had sought the duchess's aid, a woman who threw her allegiance to their sworn enemies. Psyke had aided the assassin she sought. She had accused her husband of a crime he hadn't committed, worked against him when she should have worked with him. Now, she was going to let him die because she couldn't act?

  You might stop wallowing, a new voice said, and listen. Learn. Hark above.

  Psyke watched Challacombe fade as silently as he had come, ghostly in life, silent in death.

  She opened the door to the hall, ignoring her guard's suggestion that she withdraw into her rooms where she'd be safe.